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  She hadn’t shown him the videocassette. As Louisa-Ann had said, it was just a home video, and although she’d viewed it about two dozen times, she hadn’t seen anything to help with either her past or Peter’s. The only additional detail she had was that Peter had been an excellent singer.

  Each time she’d watched the woman in the video, she became more doubtful that she was Peter’s killer. Even though, based on Peter’s age in the footage, the recording had been taken about thirty years ago, there was something about the woman that wasn’t quite right. The angle of her jaw. The shape of her nose. It was something, but she couldn’t figure out what.

  The last thing she wanted to give Chapel was a false lead.

  She arrived home and succumbed to the gnawing in her stomach by making a ham-and-cheese toasted sandwich for lunch. With a cup of tea and the steaming sandwich, she sat in front of the television. Resisting the urge to watch the video yet again, she grabbed the remote and began flicking through the channels. Music blared from the speakers, and her heart slammed into her ribs at the scene on the television.

  It was the same club that was on her video.

  Ramping up the volume, she nudged forward and stared at the screen. She had no way to record it, so she forced her brain to block out what she’d done all morning and focus on the now. A male singer was on a microphone, strutting up and down a central stage that divided the crowd in two. Behind him, young women danced in colorful dresses.

  It was almost identical to the footage she had of Peter. Even the song was the same. The notion that she was dreaming skipped across her brain, until the show broke for a commercial. Charlene used the break to grab a notepad and pen, ready to jot down anything that would help her recall. The show returned with a logo in the corner announcing it as a National Geographic program. Scripting along the bottom detailed that the footage was of Legendarios del Guajirito, a traditional singing and dancing show in Havana, Cuba. She scribbled down the name and underlined Cuba three times.

  Cuba! Adrenalin coursed through her veins. Her fingers tingled. This was it. Finally, a clue. Her mind dashed to Peter. It was hard to believe the coincidence that on the day he was buried she received a significant clue.

  A wise old owl always knows.

  Shoving the timely saying aside, she focused on the television. The footage shifted to a man with a microphone; the scripting announced him as Mr. Carter Logan, National Geographic photographer.

  “The Buena Vista Social Club is perfect for tourists looking for the musical nirvana made famous in Havana in the 1950s. Every night it’s like they’re playing their very first concert. It’s vibrant and fresh. Natural. They feed off the audience, giving the energized crowd a feel for the Cuba of old.

  “Most of the legends are over sixty and, wait for it, the star of the show is eighty-one-years old. Eighty-one! And still bringing the house down.”

  As the footage shifted from Mr. Logan to a drummer doing an energetic drum solo, Charlene knew she had to get herself down to Cuba.

  The credits begin to scroll up the screen, and she jotted down anything that seemed relevant.

  Once it was over, she sat back, staring at her notes.

  This is it. She finally had a solid clue to follow. She just had to figure out how to get to Cuba.

  ****

  The next morning, Charlene was the first customer to enter the Serenity Travel Agency on Henley Street.

  The lady behind the counter went through the usual niceties before she got down to business. “So where would you like to go?”

  “Cuba.”

  “Great choice.” The woman stood and turned to the wall behind her, plastered floor to ceiling in travel brochures. “We have some great tours; seven days is the most—”

  “I don’t need a tour.”

  The woman turned; her face washed with confusion.

  “I just need to get there.”

  “Oh, well, why didn’t you say so? I can book you a flight today. All we need is your passport.”

  Charlene’s empty stomach twinged. “What if I don’t have a passport?”

  “Honey, you can’t travel abroad without a passport.”

  The little band of hope she’d been clinging to snapped. Peter often said that every day was an opportunity to learn something new. Today Charlene learned how naïve she was.

  She wished there was someone else she could talk to. Someone smarter, stronger, more courageous. Someone who could tell her what to do now. But there wasn’t. She was all alone.

  After a few awkward minutes in which the travel agent explained travel 101 to her, she left the agency with a Cuba brochure under her arm and her thoughts in turmoil. She took the long way home, taking in the southern uniqueness that was New Orleans. It’d been a good idea because, little by little, creative ideas had crept into her mind.

  When she finally walked through her front door, she had a new plan.

  It was time to go off the grid again.

  Chapter Eleven

  Marshall had been looking forward to today’s clients, and they didn’t fail to live up to his expectations. When they’d made the booking three weeks ago, they’d asked the right questions about rigging, bait, and their potential catch species. When they’d arrived at his dock at six o’clock this morning, they were dressed for a day of fishing in the sun.

  These were his ideal clients. And they didn’t fail to deliver.

  During the day, they’d succeeded in landing one of the biggest sailfish Marshall had ever seen. According to his customers, the catch had made Marshall’s charter the most enjoyable one they’d ever taken. And given that they’d spent their retirement years chasing the illusive big one, Marshall was mighty happy with that title.

  At the end of the charter, Marshall did something he’d never done before . . . he offered to buy the men a drink at Pirate Cove, and they accepted immediately. In return, they helped him fillet all the fish and clean Miss B Hayve, which put them way ahead of every other client he’d ever had.

  “Right this way, boys.” Marshall led them through the door of his favorite haunt and up to the well-worn leather stools at the bar.

  “Marshall?” Red cocked his head at Marshall’s guests, which was justified as he’d never brought anyone into the bar with him before.

  Red offered his hand to each of the men. “How y’all doin'?”

  “We’re great. Just had a magical day fishing with Marshall here.”

  “They landed a hundred-and-twenty-pound sailfish.” Marshall grinned, and it felt damn good to do it too.

  Red whistled. Not that he’d have any idea. The guy had never been fishing in his life. He tapped his hands on the bar, slapping out three beats of a tune. “Sounds like you need to celebrate then. What’ll it be?”

  The men ordered a beer each, and Marshall ordered his standard lemonade. He was impressed that they didn’t question his choice of beverage, but he wouldn’t have been embarrassed to tell them if they had. He’d found out the hard way that sharing his daily count on the wagon had been instrumental in keeping him motivated. It’d taken way too damn long to get to that stage, and he had no intention of turning back.

  Warren and his brothers occupied their usual booth at the back of the bar, and Marshall couldn’t decide if their glares were because of the last time they’d met or because he’d taken their clients yet again. He didn’t care, as long as they stayed right where they were.

  As his two customers bounced off each other with random details about their day fishing, Marshall sighed with contentment. If all his days were like today, he’d never dwell on what could’ve been. Red delivered the drinks, and Marshall raised his glass. “Congratulations on a good catch.”

  “It’s all because of you, captain.”

  Marshall grinned at that. Respect. It was a dying trait.

  They shared a few more laughs and a double serving of Red’s second-best dish—spicy buffalo wings with blue cheese dressing. Then, despite Marshall’s best efforts to talk
them into another beer, the men announced that they had to get back to their wives or they’d be castrated before dinner.

  The men shook his hand prior to leaving, with promises to return.

  He hoped so too.

  Just as the men walked out, a woman walked in. She had a movie star look about her—not the glamorous, don’t-touch-me kind of look, more like an action star. Her bare arms were well toned, and he guessed it wasn’t from fanaticism at the gym but rather years of manual labor as opposed to pencil pushing.

  She glanced around the room with the awareness of a cat on the prowl, and her eyes fell on him for the briefest of moments. After a cursory glance, she broke eye contact and strolled to the other end of the bar. Red plastered her with his well-practiced southern greeting, and she placed an order for a soda and lime. While she waited for her drink, her eyes played about the room with the attentiveness of a sharpshooter.

  Something radiated from within her. The expression on her face was a curious mix of nerves and confidence. If he had to guess, he’d say she was here out of necessity, not for the view. The more he watched her in the mirror, the more he convinced himself she was no ordinary tourist. She was after something.

  When she received her drink and carried it to the booth where Warren and his dopey brothers were sitting, Marshall knew she was trouble.

  Or in trouble.

  No woman in her right mind would approach those three. Especially not a beautiful woman like her. She needed something. Why she figured they’d have it was beyond him.

  He’d seen that move a few times in Key West. Dumb tourists came looking for Cuban cigars and rum. But they never looked like she did. They were usually young guys out for a wild night . . . or three.

  The second she strolled toward Warren and the twins, they sat up and smiled their goofy grins. Why she didn’t run the other way was a mystery. The threesome looked as devious as unskilled pickpockets. Either she was confident she could handle them, or she was off her rocker.

  It was baffling enough that he continued watching the exchange, and although they kept their voices low, with each word he did hear, dread crept up his spine.

  Overnight. Fast. Havana. Secret.

  It didn’t take much brain power to figure it out. This woman needed to get to Cuba in a hurry. What in God’s name for, was another question. Nobody needed to get to Cuba. It was usually Cubans begging to come back the other way.

  She had come to the right bar, though, so obviously she’d done her homework. Although pretty much anyone with a boat in Key West could get her there, it was Marshall and Warren who had the reputation for it.

  Of course, she could fly there. But the fact that she was here, and that she wanted her trip to be a secret, meant she was making an illegal crossing. She either didn’t have a passport or didn’t want the authorities to know where she was going.

  And that put her at the top of his “most interesting people” list. The fact that she was a woman on the high side of stunning made it even better.

  She eased back from their booth, and as she set her still-full glass on the bar and adjusted her bag on her shoulder, the three brothers squeezed out from behind the table.

  A loose grin crept through Warren’s stubble, boasting that he’d just scored something big. Warren would be a shitty poker player.

  Marshall waited until the four of them were on the move before he swiveled his stool to face them.

  “What’s going on, Warren?”

  Warren’s eyes blazed with hostility. “None of your fucking business.”

  Marshall turned to the woman, and their eyes met. The fact that she didn’t look away impressed him. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing? These three losers aren’t the best choice.”

  “I can handle myself.” Her clamped jaw said that she thought she was in control of the situation.

  “Yeah! Fuck off.” Ernie’s vocabulary was limited.

  “Three against one.” Marshall tilted his head at her. “That’s not exactly—”

  “As I said, I can handle myself.” Her lips drew to a thin line.

  Marshall showed his palms in a peace gesture. “I’m sure you can. It’s these three knuckleheads I’m worried about. They’re not the most reliable of—”

  “I said fuck off, Marshall.” Warren clenched his stubbled jaw.

  “I heard you.” Marshall eased off his stool. “But I can’t do that. I’m invested now.”

  “Oh, yeah. How? The woman’s with us.” Ernie took a step forward, yet still retained his distance.

  “Maybe now. But once she sees your boat . . .” He trailed off, letting her fill in the blanks.

  “There ain’t nothin’ wrong with my boat.” Warren sounded like a snotty-nosed kid defending a Tonka toy.

  “Yeah? You fixed the toilet yet?” Marshall went straight for the jugular. With the women, it was always about the facilities.

  “Shut the fuck up. We fixed that last week.” Warren’s lip twitched, alerting Marshall to his lie. Shithouse poker face front and center. Warren squared off at Marshall, just like he’d done a week ago. The dumb shit didn’t learn.

  “Don’t do it, Warren.”

  “What?”

  “You know what. Didn’t you learn your lesson last week?”

  Marshall didn’t miss the woman’s resolve melting. He felt sorry for her. She’d made a tough call, got through the negotiations, and committed. Now he was throwing a wrench in and making her look like an amateur.

  But when she adjusted her stance, embodying that of a nimble warrior—light on her feet, but ready to strike—his opinion of her changed. She wasn’t here on a whim. She was determined to go through with her harebrained idea. And that made him even more involved.

  If he didn’t take her across the water to Cuba, then she’d find somebody else. Of that, he was certain. He just had to change her mind about the brothers.

  He’d planned on letting his verbal communication skills win the debate, but when Warren and his stupid siblings formed an arc in front of his bar stool, he got a better idea.

  Unconscious men can’t captain boats.

  “Don’t be fools. Haven’t we done this enough already?” Despite his words, Marshall was grateful they’d started it. And something unprecedented also shot across his brain . . . he was actually looking forward to showing this woman his skills. It was a strange realization. There was something about her that took him back to his long-forgotten youth, reminding him that he was a virile, young man . . . still well and truly in his prime.

  In that frozen moment, when the threesome shifted their gazes from him to each other, Marshall assessed his surroundings, calculating distances and possible weapons with clarity and commitment.

  Good opponents would ensure their faces were unreadable. Not these guys. Their intentions were written on their expressions like they were advertising blimps. None of them wanted to fight, but they were stupid enough to go through with it anyway. And each of them was waiting for the other to go first. Marshall didn’t blame them.

  “When you men finish beating your chests,” the woman’s clipped voice cut through the tension like a machine gun, “I’ll be waiting outside.”

  Marshall was utterly bemused by her actions. Bar fights were like watching a train wreck; while you know there’s going to be injuries and blood, you can’t help but watch. Not her, though. Maybe she’d already seen her share of fights. Or blood.

  He tucked that observation away, wondering how soon it would be before he’d need it again.

  “Well, you heard the lady,” Marshall egged them on after her departure. “Either walk away or get this over with. Your choice.” His words were final, yet he knew nothing would change their minds.

  These guys were dumb, dumber, and damn stupid.

  Warren balled his fists, announcing his impending attack to Marshall and potentially to his brothers; he was ready. Marshall was ready too, though he resisted showing it. He was even tempted to sip his lemonade just to prove h
ow undaunted he was.

  The growl that tumbled from Warren’s throat triggered his charge, as did his size-twelve boots pounding across the floorboards. Warren lowered his shoulder, going for a linebacker charge, and Marshall braced for it side on, giving him less of a target. At the last second, he dodged aside, wrapped his arm around Warren’s neck, trapped him in a headlock, and squeezed. Sure, Warren’s arms flailed, attempting blows that failed to land, but without the blood flow to his brain, his attention quickly turned to Marshall’s bicep. Warren’s fingers clawed at Marshall’s upper arm, and he made a mental note to put antiseptic on the scratches later.

  Marshall eyeballed the ugly twins, even grinned at them as their brother slipped into unconsciousness.

  Why the three hadn’t charged simultaneously was beyond Marshall. If they had, it’d be a much fairer fight. But it was like they were waiting to see the success, or failure, of their sibling before they launched their own attack.

  Ernie was next to step up. He had a temper like dynamite; once it was lit, it was near impossible to snuff it. Ernie chose the same attack plan as his older brother. Shoulder low, full-blown run, fury-driven growl.

  “Really?” Marshall even had time to drop Warren’s lifeless body and shake his head before Dipshit reached him. This time, though, Marshall repeated the move he’d made the other day and simply stepped aside and timed his shove perfectly to torpedo Ernie into the bar. He too fell to the floor in a puddle of useless flesh and bone.

  “Now, Buck.” Marshall spoke in a fatherly tone, which given their upbringing, the three brothers had probably never heard in their life. “Do you really want to lose another tooth?”

  His head bobbled, and his tongue pushed through the gap in his teeth.

  “Good decision. Now, I’m going to walk out this door, and you’re going to buy your brothers a few beers when they wake up. Come dinner time, you’ll be laughing at this.” Marshall tugged out his wallet and tossed a Benjamin onto the bodies. Buck’s eyes followed the hundred’s flutter downward, and Marshall wondered if he’d even tell his brothers about the cash.